


H-943; or The One Where Phil Gets Hit With Sex Pollen

by raiining



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M, Sex Pollen, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-04
Updated: 2012-07-04
Packaged: 2017-11-09 04:09:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/451093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil can’t remember much of the actual sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	H-943; or The One Where Phil Gets Hit With Sex Pollen

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say? I love a good trope.
> 
>  
> 
> Many many thank yous to jedibuttercup for putting up not only with my terrible tenses but also with the horrors of incompatible email formats! Any mistakes left are completely mine.
> 
> Also: if they were mine the second movie would involve a lot more boy kissing. Just saying.

Phil can’t remember much of the actual sex.

He remembers walking in to medical. There had been a gasp and a shout and someone had knocked over ... something. And then there had been a yellow haze and a buzzing warm fuzziness had settled over everything.

He remembers thinking he should call in an airborne contaminant. He had, if anyone should ask, been walking to the door to hit the lockdown button when he had simply ... continued walking.

And then he had been at his office and Clint had been there, looking to hand in his mission report form from last week’s cluster-fuck and Phil ...

Phil’s still pretty hazy on that part. He wishes he could remember it better because the camera angle from his office misses this particular corner, but he thinks he walked up to Barton, buried one hand in the archer’s hair and dragged him down into a wet, deep kiss.

He remembers Clint’s hair had been as soft as he always suspected. He can’t remember what his mouth tasted like.

After that it gets really fuzzy, but Phil had gotten to the surveillance tapes before Maria could so he knows what happened next. Phil had pushed Barton back into his office until the back of his legs had hit Phil's desk, then he had undone Barton’s pants with one hand and palmed him for a moment through his purple boxers. When Clint had been fully hard and leaking Phil had undone his own fly and pulled himself out erect. Keeping Barton in place with the hand behind his head he had kept up the relentless pressure on his specialist’s mouth while stroking them both to completion.

Just like Fantasy #117.

Barton hadn't just gone with it, Phil can see that. The surveillance footage is grainy and has no sound but Phil can see most of Barton's face as the archer withers beneath Phil's resolve. He knows that he had protested, but he hadn't argued too hard. 

He'd let Phil work them both, and the archer had come with a shout on Phil’s hand, but that had been ... basically it. He had kept his hands to himself, touching Phil’s shoulder only once, when they were done, to steer Phil towards his office chair. Phil had been half-asleep by that point, the hard fast sex burning whatever chemical he had inhaled out of his system and leaving him almost drooping in place. 

Barton had maneuvered him to his chair, tucked Phil back together, and turned around and left.

That was it. That was all. No long searching fond looks, no tender touching. Just business-like handling.

Professional.

Like Barton had figured out what was going on, helped him out, and that was it.

Phil had woken up in his office several hours later. He had been hot and sticky and filled with a shame and embarrassment he had only half understood. But he'd remembered enough to scramble for the tapes. 

He kind of hates himself for how many times he's watched these already, but he hates himself more for letting it happen in the first place.

Not only has he now outed himself to the object of his four-year long crush in the most spectacular and embarrassingly way possible; but he now has proof, saved forever to his hard drive, that Barton has absolutely no feelings toward him that aren’t strictly professional.

Phil knew this prior to the sex, of course. He may have let himself become deluded by the way Barton’s eyes sparkled when they were on a solo mission together and the tone of his voice when he teased Phil over the radio on a stake-out. But Phil has always known his ridiculous crush was entirely one-sided.

Clint flirts with everyone. Phil watches him smile at the nursing staff, laugh with other agents. Hell, Clint flirts with the barista when they get coffee off-base together on Tuesdays. Why should Phil think he's special?

He should delete the tapes from his laptop. Not only are they a security breach, but they hurt, bruising Phil’s heart a little more every he watches them. His hand hovers over the delete button every time he finishes, panting, tissue held in one sticky hand.

But if he did, he would never again be able to see Clint’s face when he came. And despite the embarrassment that colours his cheeks whenever he passes Clint in the hallway, unabated after three weeks of his own personal hell, Phil still can’t do it.

 

He is, irretrievably, fucked.

 

The only benefit of this cluster-fuck is that medical has revised their transport of dangerous and/or potentially harmful materials so the next time Phil walks into medical and someone drops something and a cloud of yellow dust covers him from head to toe, the substance hasn’t been aerosolized.

“Jesus,” Phil swears dryly to the terrified scientists, “I am requisitioning you people some non-breakable beakers.”

He is still shaking yellow dust out of his hair when he stops in the doorway of his office and sees Barton sitting nervously on his desk. The archer stands up suddenly when Phil appears, the clench of his hands disappearing as he gives Phil a suddenly flirty smile.

“Barton?” Phil frowns, “what are you doing here?”

Barton’s eyes widen and Phil winces because, no, he hasn’t meant to sound so prissy. But the yellow dust on his suit is making him remember exactly why he has been avoiding the archer for the past five weeks and he really doesn’t need the visual with Barton actually here, in his office, again.

“Um ...” Clint says, eloquently, and Phil has to resist the urge to rub his hand over his forehead and his pants sequentially.

“So I guess they fixed the aerosolation problem.”

And Phil is already nodding and walking towards his desk, ready to agree to anything, world domination, if Barton would just get the hell out of his office, when he turns to the younger man and says, “No, wait, what?”

Clint blushes and looks at the floor and Phil scrambles to think behind the wave of anger and embarrassment that threatens to engulf him.

“Are you following me?”

Clint stares at him like he is trying to figure out which answer Phil wants to hear.

“No?”

Phil stares at him some more. “Barton -”

“I’m sorry!” Clint throws his hands into the air. “I saw that they were moving the H-943 today and I, I knew you didn't have a great track record with the stuff and I figured I would just be here, in case -” he blushes again, “in case anything happened.”

Phil stares at him, incredulous. “Did you - do you -”

“You know what,” Clint says already backing away, “forget it, it was a stupid idea. You hardly need me to protect your virtue.” He gives Phil a hollow sounding laugh. “Not with junior agents practically throwing themselves at your feet all day, and night, and inventing new forms just so they can talk to you.”

Phil blinks at him, “What junior -”

But Clint is still backing away, not looking at him now, and Phil doesn’t care about the answer anyway.

“No, stop, Clint -” and okay, he is losing his calm and collected exterior for approximately ever here, but Clint has at least stopped backing away again, so Phil is counting it as a win.

He comes around his desk and leans back against it, careful to keep himself away from Barton, giving the younger man all the space he needs to observe Phil easily and run from him if necessary.

“Are you saying you wouldn’t be adverse to -”

And at Clint’s instant blush Phil stops, surprised. “But you never -”

Clint does look up at him then, his eyes burning. “YOU never -”

“Yes I did! I, in this office, I -”

“Yeah,” Clint scoffs, “under the influence of quasi-alien sex pollen. When you hardly had a choice. I knew you, that you would never, if you could choose -”

Phil has to cross the room at that and raise a hand to touch Barton where his palms are shaping and re-shaping the curve of his bow. 

“I would,” he says, serious and low. “If, when, I have the choice. I will always choose you.”

Clint smiles, so dazzlingly bright that Phil has to kiss him to save his eyesight. So he does.

 

Later, when Phil has turned off the security film and the two of them are basking in the afterglow on his desk, because apparently this really couldn't wait to get back to his apartment, and also they have history now with this desk, Phil turns towards him.

“So, the last time, you left because ...”

Clint shrugs. “I knew you'd have the footage. I figured if you could forgive me for taking advantage of your drugged and horny state at least you wouldn’t have my balls in a vice for cuddling.”

Clint turns to him in suddenly worried horror. “You DO have the video -”

“Oh,” Phil assures him, tucking the archer back under his arm. “I have the video.”


End file.
